


What Happens In Vegas

by regionals



Category: Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Age Difference, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fake Marriage, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Friends With Benefits, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-08
Updated: 2018-07-08
Packaged: 2019-06-07 03:43:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15210149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/regionals/pseuds/regionals
Summary: What happens in Vegas definitely doesn't fuckingstayin Vegas.





	What Happens In Vegas

**Author's Note:**

> i'll probably update this irregularly since i suck but hi... hewwo... here's a fic that im pretty sure im actually gonna finish........  
> also, yes, i do realize that you can't just decide to get married then do it in a day but for the sake of this fic lets pretend that you can because im a hopeless romantic and i like taking it out on brendon urie

Brendon decides that he's a fucking idiot, an absolute buffoon, when he wakes up one morning with a beautiful man in his hotel bed, sleeping soundly with his face smushed into the fluffy hotel pillows, brown hair spread across the pillows, some of it falling into his face just so. Truly, this man is very beautiful, and Brendon wouldn't be against slyly waking the dude up if it wasn't for the fact that he's currently sat there, on the side of the bed, staring down at a legal document grasped in his hands, trying to convince himself that he didn't get married to whoever the fuck this guy, or kid, really, was last night while he was strung out on his annual coke binge.

Light from the window reflects off of his hand, and that's when he notices that, _for the love of god,_ he's wearing a fucking _wedding band. "Am I stupid? Am I actually fucking stupid?"_ He prays that it's fake, that it's not real, but a quick look at his bank account from his phone tells him that, nope, he really did dish out five hundred fucking dollars for a white gold wedding band. He turns around and looks at the kid's left hand, and, _Jesus,_ he really must've been strung out.

***

 **Brendon** : I have a situation that I might or might not need help with.

 **Josh** **:** What's the sitch bitch

 **Brendon** : You know how last night was my birthday and how, on my birthday, I like to get as fucked up as possible without dying?

 **Josh** **:** I'm not bailing you out.

 **Brendon** : if I was in jail I wouldn't be able to text you, dumbass.

 **Brendon** : Point is, I might or might not have blacked out for a period of time, and I might or might not be in a hotel with some kid, with a marriage certificate in my hands.

 **Josh** **:** Is he at least 18

 **Brendon** : From the looks of it, I sure as shit hope so. I don't think this would've been able to happen if he wasn't so idk. What do I do? Do you have any fatherly wisdom?

 **Josh** **:** I'm honestly stumped, my man. I have shit to do today, so, uh... I hope the married life suits you?

***

 _"Fucking_ _Josh_ _,"_ Brendon mutters under his breath as he turns his phone screen off, and gets up from the bed, stumbling towards where he left his clothes. _"Tabloids are going to have a fucking field day once this gets out,"_ he thinks to himself as he's pulling his underwear and his pants on. He doesn't feel like buttoning the shirt he wore last night, so he wears it kind of like a jacket, under his actual jacket, before he's sticking his foot into the middle of the kid's back, and shoving him over, saying, "Get the fuck up, asshole."

The kid whines, and curls up a little bit, pressing his palms against his forehead. "I'm _so_ tired," is all he has to say before attempting to get comfortable again.

Brendon has three younger siblings. He's used to waking people up, and has absolutely no sympathy whatsoever as he yanks the blanket off of the kid. "I couldn't give less of a shit. I have shit to do today, so you need to get up, give me your phone number or something, and then get the fuck out of here."

The kid turns to look at Brendon, and Brendon thinks that if their situation right now wasn't the plot to some meet-cute romantic comedy, then maybe he'd take more than a few seconds to appreciate how beautiful this person truly is, but the two of them are still in Vegas, Brendon has a radio show to do in, like, an hour, and after that he needs to worry about getting a fucking divorce.

"Did we... _fuck?"_ If anything, the kid looks confused.

"I would assume so. Look, if you need me to, I can call you a cab or something."

"I live in Henderson," The kid states as he's standing up, and walking around the room to get his own clothes. Brendon has to admit--this dude can rock a pair of skinny jeans. There's a part of him that really wants to have sex with this guy--again--that he can actually remember, and he's half tempted to act on that thought, but then the kid's looking at his left hand, and asking, "What the fuck is this?"

"Were you--were you _high_ last night by any chance?"

"Of course I was. I'm always high on Friday. Are we...?"

Brendon hands him the marriage certificate, and just stands there awkwardly as the kid reads it.

"Oh, _fuck._ My mom's going to fucking _kill_ me."

"Your _mom?_ Do you still live with your parents or something?" At this point, Brendon's gathering up any _paraphernalia_ he left lying around the room, along with his keys and his sunglasses.

"No. Absolutely not. No, um, I mean... She's probably going to be pissed that, one, I got married without telling her, two, she didn't get invited to the wedding, and three, that I did it while fucked up on coke."

"You know what? Whatever. Fair enough." Brendon's talking a little too fast, and he's opening the door now, motioning for the kid to follow him. This kid-- _Dallon,_ according to the marriage certificate--is being at least fairly _cool_ about all of this, and he doesn't give Brendon any trouble as he's following him down the hall. "So, I have a... _thing_ to do in a few hours, so you--you need to figure something out. Go home, go somewhere, I don't know, nor do I care, but if I'm late, my manager is going to fucking _ream_ me."

"Your _manager?_ What, are you famous?"

"In a sense, yes."

"Cool. Well, I still have no idea who the fuck you are."

"How old are you? You're not, like, seventeen or something, are you?" Brendon's pressing the _close door_ button on the elevator pretty violently, even though he knows it won't do anything.

"No. I turn twenty two next month. You're not, like, fifty seven, are you?"

"Do I _look_ fifty seven to you?"

"Thirty five at the most."

"I turned thirty one yesterday," he grumbles as they're waiting out the elevator ride. _"Today's going to be a long fucking day,"_ Brendon thinks to himself.


End file.
